little rocking chair, and now she had brought out a
baby, all dressed up in its Sunday best, and was rocking expectantly,
watching the ship. Thundering to the harbor, the Cunarder now moved
slowly out. As she swept into the river the end of the pier was revealed
to our eyes all black with people waving. They waved until she was out
in midstream. Then, as they began to turn away, one plump
motherly-looking woman happened to glance toward us.

"Why, the cute little baby," we heard her exclaim. And the next minute
hundreds of people were looking. The barge mother rocked serenely.

Abner grabbed his camera and jumped nimbly down on the barge, where he
took the baby's picture, with the amused crowd for a background.

"The kid's name," he remarked on his return, "is Violetta Rosy. She was
born at two a. m. at Pier Forty-nine." He was silent for a moment and
then went on sententiously, "Think what it'll mean to her, through all
the storm and stress of life, to be able to look fondly back upon the
dear old homestead. There's a punch to Violetta. Better run her in."

"I will," I said.

"And that little thing of mine," he queried modestly, "about the dear
old homestead."

"I've got it," I replied.

"I hand quite a few little things to writers," Ab continued cheerfully.
"If you'll just give me some idea of what it is you're looking for----"

"I'm looking for the punch," I answered promptly.

"Then we'll get on fine," he said. "The editor got me worried some. He
said you'd trained in Paris."

"Oh, that was only a starter," I told him.

Presently he went into the dockshed on his unending quest of "the
punch." And left to myself I got thinking. What did Paris know about us?
De Maupassant's methods wouldn't do here. I noticed two painters in
overalls at work on that large freighter. With long brooms that they
held in both hands they were slapping a band of crude yellow paint along
her scarred and rusted side. That was what I needed, the broom! All at
once the harbor took hold of me hard. And exulting in its bigness, the
bold raw splattering bigness of my native Yankee land, "Now for some
glory stories," I said.

I went into the dockshed, and there I stayed right through until night,
till my mind was limp and battered from the rush of new impressions. For
in this long sea station, under the blue arc-lights, in boxes, barrels,
crates and bags, tumbling, banging, crashing, came the products of this
modern land. You could fe